


Merry Kings of the Bush Are We

by AvianAtrocities



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Canon Typical Violence, Drinking, M/M, Manhandling, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn, Swearing, robot death, wanking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-08
Updated: 2016-11-10
Packaged: 2018-07-13 22:36:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 11,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7140422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvianAtrocities/pseuds/AvianAtrocities
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Laugh, kookaburra, laugh, kookaburra, Gay your life must be. [Dead for now, may pick up later.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> sorry about the dorky title, i've got to stick with My Brand™  
> more to be added, im planning on exploring these two in my spare time. no beta, apologies for mistakes
> 
> anyway i dont own the characters dont sue me etc.

The sun sat high in the sky, unsurprisingly bringing the height of heat for the day. The air rang with the sound of bugs, big and ugly and calling to each other from the branches of the sparse eucalyptus, along with the sound of heatwaves rising from the coarse desert ground.

Hidden in the shade of an abandoned rest stop, Junkrat sat, slouched against a dirty wall, trying desperately to stay awake, twitching occasionally to bring himself back to vigilance as he caught himself nodding off. Being on the run had been terrible on his already awful sleep schedule, and partnered with the sluggish summer air, it was becoming harder and harder to keep conscious. Even with the scattering of mines and booby traps hastily scattered around the gas station, peace of mind didn’t come to the barely lucid Junker. Ever since he’d stumbled upon the diamond in the rough he had found in the heart of the Omnium, rest had become a distant luxury.

 _That’s what’cha get for running your mouth_ , he chided himself, jerking out of slumber once again. He wished the sun would dip below the horizon already, it was impossible to travel during the day in the middle of January in the Outback. Darkness brought stealth and cool air, made it easier to trek across the Bush without passing out from heatstroke or attracting attention.

He rummaged in his sack and found a few little round fruits, bright red and just a little dirty from sharing space with his tools. In an effort to keep awake, he took a careful bite of one of the quondongs, wrinkling his nose as he shifted against the hard concrete. Just a couple more hours, he reminded himself. He peeled the flesh from the fruit and tossed the nut against one of the abandoned fuel pumps. Night couldn’t come soon enough.

A very loud, very near, explosion woke him up with a start, Junkrat panicked as he floundered to remember who he was and where he was at. He didn’t know _when_ exactly he had passed out, but the sky was only now starting to turn orange as the sun grew closer to the edge of the sky. His heart was still threatening to break out of his ribcage as he scrambled for his grenade launcher, bleary-eyed and not entirely awake yet as he attempted to get to his feet. One of the grenade bouquets must have gone off, he figured. Whatever had tripped the wire must still be alive, there was a lack of death-cries and he heard a heavy scuffling coming from the diner part of the rest stop. “ _Alroight!_ Alright, show yourself,” he drawled, gun pointed at the doorway that led to the other side of the gas station. But nothing appeared, and the sound of bugs was once again all that the Junker could hear. He blinked slowly, then lowered his launcher after a solid minute of glaring at the empty doorway.

He huffed.

“Must’ve been a ding--”

His conclusion remained unspoken, a strangled cry of surprise escaping him instead as a large figure bounded through the previously unoccupied space, tackled him in an instant, and held him pinned to the wall by his neck.

The grenade launcher was dropped in the moment of struggle, Junkrat couldn’t see it, but he heard it scrape against the concrete floor as it was kicked away. Normally, he would have been absolutely livid about someone touching his beloved weaponry, but he was just _slightly_ preoccupied with the vice-like grip around his throat and the sound of a very, very angry someone attached to the hand around his windpipe.

The lack of air must’ve been getting to him, because he swore that he was being attacked by a monster with a pig face.

“Holy **shit** ,” he wheezed, hands flying to scratch at the biggest fucking arm he’d ever fucking seen. The monster replied by tightening its grip, and Junkrat kicked his legs, prosthetic hitting what felt like flesh, then digging into the bugger’s bulk as he tried to lift himself up in order to breathe.

“You almost killed me, **you little shit** ,” a deep voice roared accusingly from the hulk of what he now identified as a _really_ big man. “Give me **one** reason why I shouldn’t snap your neck.”

Junkrat slapped at the hand, gurgling as darkness threatened to blot out his vision, bells ringing in his ears. 

“ **Well?** ” The pig-man bellowed, lifting the scrawny Junker even further off the ground.

“I’ll pay you!,” he tried to shout, but it came out as a hoarse excuse for a whisper.

“The fuck did you say?” The boar of a human snarled, grip tightening just a fraction more before he shoved Junkrat harder into the wall, and Christ, Junkrat thought he was about to die. But his attacker released him and let him crumple to the floor in a pile of limbs and heaving chest. 

Junkrat clasped his hands over his neck, lungs burning and skin on fire, but breathing and alive, at least for the moment.

“ _Fifty-fifty_ ,” he gasped again, scampering a few feet back as he shied away from the giant that had started to reach for him again. “I’ve got something--, Somethin’ good and worth more than a fuckin’ country,” coughing, he looked for his bag, his gun, anything. “It’s worth more than me life,” he wheezed as the pig man planted a boot on his chest, pinning him to the ground.

“ _Fucksake_ , you ugly shitarsed bastard,” Junkrat hissed, then yelped as the boot ground down. “ _Fuckin’_ \-- **Let me go!** ”

The other man peered down at him as the rat scrabbled against the floor, masked face barely visible, obstructed behind his gut.

“You’re that kid that found something in the Omnium,” rumbled the behemoth, a statement more than a question.

“Yeh, yeah, that’s fuckin’ me, but I ain’t got it on me so killin’ me ain’t going to get you shit,” he spat out in reply, but he was grinning now, teeth showing and sharp, brows knit and eyes wild.

The big lug stared down for a few seconds longer, anger seemingly quelled. He lifted his foot, and Junkrat quickly clambered away and onto his feet.

“Good choice,” he wheeze-laughed, hand displaying a previously hidden grenade.

The giant man let out a disgruntled snort.

“Yeah, that’s what I fuckin’ thought, ya cock.”

“Fifty-fifty,” The oaf rumbled out.

“I told you, I don’t have the shit on me.” Junkrat sneered as he rubbed at his throat. “Fuckin’ tits on a boar,” he spat vehemently. “What’s your fuckin’ problem?”

The larger man tilted his head, probably eyeing him through the tinted lenses of his gas mask. “You’re not going anywhere” he finally grunted. “Not without me. Not until you pay up.”

Junkrat showed his teeth again, “Then make use of those ham-fists and keep me alive if you want your damned half.”

The mountain of a man let out a deep round of laughter, more sadistic than amused.

“ **Deal.** ”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Highway to Hell

The big leather clad man eventually introduced himself as 'Roadhog' after Junkrat asked him through a slew of words, throwing his own moniker into the mix. He recognizes him as the local legend and kicks himself for not catching it when he saw the pig-mask. And soon enough, he finds out _why_ exactly the name Roadhog was given to him in the first place.

 "Hooley fuckin' _dooley_ ," Junkrat let out a low whistle, bushy eyebrows raised in appreciation. "That is the _biggest_ goddamn bike I've ever seen, mate. Hell, I betcha a pint that that's the biggest goddamn cycle in the whole damn world. You’ve gotta take up a whole lane with this monster. Maybe two if you're _really_ feelin' it." He walks around the giant hunk of a motorcycle, making various clicks and noises of approval. It’s only when he reaches out to touch the thing’s ape-hangers that Roadhog uncrosses his arms and slaps the curious hand away. Junkrat’s hand retreats and he rubs it against his chest, hissing defensively. “Oi, wasn’t gonna break it, ya big bogan.”

Roadhog doesn’t acknowledge him, but reaches down to pick him up by the back of his belt, lifting him off the ground and setting him on the worn leather seat, Junkrat kicking and fussing all the while. “Sit down,” he orders, pointing a big sausage finger at the disheveled spitfire. Junkrat is too busy trying to dig the seat of his pants out of his asscrack to argue, and instead settles for complaining about the biggest wedgie he’s gotten since he was an anklebiter.

While he’s squirming around with his trousers, the bigger man gathers a few items from the remains of the gas station, a few bits of machinery he figures he can salvage, some chains from the garage, a tire iron and an empty gas can. Junkrat is still on the chopper, though he’s yapping about something and Roadhog doesn’t care to listen, he’s preoccupied with milking what gasoline he could manage from the old pumps. There’s enough for a couple hundred miles, he decides, and wordlessly he stows his findings, along with Junkrat’s grenade launcher, into a saddlebag strapped to his hog. The scrawny excuse for a Junker is still going on about something, Roadhog puts a hand on the guy’s filthy chest and presses him further back on the seat. “Do you ever shut up?” He grunts, not really caring for an answer.

“Only on good days,” Junkrat laughs raucously, only to be surprised into momentary silence when Roadhog throws a leg over the bike and sits, steel frame lowering with his weight. He scoots himself away from the other man’s bulk, not entirely pleased with the prospect of becoming acquainted with the fella’s back and ass.  


“Cripes, I guess you needed a ride this goddamn big, huh?”  


Roadhog grunts.

There’s no warning as the motorcycle roars to life, Junkrat nearly shits himself for the second time that day as he instinctively grabs at something, anything to hang onto. His hands find purchase on the Hog’s half-worn overalls, and the Rat lets out something between a shriek and a yelp as he clings on for dear life.

While the Goliath of a motorcycle was big enough to hold Hog, it wasn’t meant for two, and the twig holding onto his pants was agitating him even further.

But he could control his aggravation. If the kid really had found something priceless in the hell forsaken husk of the Omnium, he could weather the jabbering and the smell of burnt hair.

Fucking shit, though. How the hell was his hair on fire anyway.

Junkrat eventually calmed down after a good twenty minutes on the road, the rush of wind and the heat of the sun on his back enough to make him zone out to the point of letting one hand go of clinging to the giant, though he kept the crude claws of his prosthetic tangled in Roadhog’s back pocket.

“You’ve got a lil’ piggy on your trousers,” he wonders aloud.  


Roadhog says nothing.

Junkrat finds that both pockets bare embroidered pig faces, and he snorts and laughs. Something about the infamous Junker enforcer sporting little piggy motifs was abso-fuckin’-lutely hilarious. He cackles for a solid minute, then wipes an eye when he regains what little composure he had to begin with.

“Say, mate,” he asks loudly, fighting against the rushing air to be heard. “Where we goin’, anyway?”  


Roadhog breaks his silence to rumble back, “Junkertown.”

And that’s what makes Junkrat scream and let go.

There’s a breeze where the little scavver had been sitting previously, and Roadhog slams on the breaks, the previously controlled anger boiling over into rage. Hauling the bike around, he hits the gas and gets back above the archaic speed limit.

He catches sight of the skinny blighter trying to run off the asphalt, looking dazed and frantic. If he thought leaving the road was going to stop the Hog from recollecting him, he had another thing coming. The hard packed dirt flies up in the air as tires kick it up, within seconds Roadhog is caught up to Junkrat. He passes him, then cuts him off as the motorcycle skids to a halt.

Junkrat lets out a horrified cry, scrambling off to the left in an attempt to flee. All in vain, he finds out quickly enough, Roadhog had jumped from his bike and overtook him again.

“I SHOULD’VE RUN YOU OVER,” he roars in a wheezy, kind of murderous sort of way, grabbing the Rat around the middle and lifting him off the ground, the Rat screaming and kicking all the while.

“I AIN’T GOING BACK– FUCKIN’ SHIT, LEMME DOWN. OW, OW, **FUCK** , GITCHER MEATHOOKS OFF THE ROAD RASH, CRIPES.”

Roadhog is briefly thankful that he knows how to handle angry animals (and humans), he’s certain at this point that Junkrat would have bit him if his mouth had been anywhere near him. He holds the lanky bastard under one arm as he huffs back to the bike, Junkrat’s protests ignored. Rifling through his bag, he pulls out one of the chains he picked up earlier, and pinning the pissed Aussie still with one hand, he loops it through Junkrat’s belt loops and secures the ends to the bike. He debates cramming something in his mouth to get the bugger to shut up, but decides against it and hops back on the hog.

At least that should keep him from hopping off again.

“Christsake, ya fuckin’ _shit-meister_ ,” Junkrat sputters, rebelliously pounding his fists on Roadhog’s back, _thwap, thwap_. “They’re going to _kill_ me, you lard-eatin’ dick-pickle! Get it through your THICK SKULL!” _Thwap_.  


“No one gets to kill you but me,” Roadhog corrects him, annoyed but beginning to cool off.  


Junkrat lets out a frustrated shriek and smacks his fists against him again, but Roadhog is already back on the highway and headed for Junkertown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uhhhhhh hoping to update this at least once a week. i haven't written this much in years
> 
> if you notice something off with spelling/grammar/details/etc I do appreciate it if you point it out LOL im just a little scatter brained


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> that's just rude

It takes a couple of hours to get to Junkertown, quick and straightforward on the remains of the highway, unlike the week Junkrat spent legging away from the damn place. It was kind of ironic, in a way. He couldn’t appreciate it, ‘specially when he was sweaty, tired, and the heavy chain had been digging into his scrawny hips with each bump and pothole.

Roadhog was just thankful that Junkrat had stopped squealing like a stuck pig a half hour in. He could have sworn it was because the scavver had drifted off at some point. If he had, it didn’t matter now, he had picked up where he left off and while he wasn’t screaming like a banshee, his mouth was still running nonstop. He was like a perpetual motion machine but with more noise and less improbability.

It was nightfall by the time he pulled into town, he decided on the nearest shamble of an excuse for an inn as the stop for the evening. He really needed to get his mitts on a fresh set of brake pads, but that’d have to wait until morning when the traders were up and about again. For now, everyone was just settling down after a long day of living in the hellhole of the Outback.

He unhooked Junkrat from the bike after parking in the back, the smaller man hissing and rubbing his boney hips once he’s free.

“Cripesake, I’m going to feel like absolute shite in the morning,” Rat grumbles, the thought of escape crossing his mind. It’s quickly shooed away, it’d be suicide to run off alone in town without the big enforcer there to spook off any dirt-pirates. He complains about being back in Junkertown again. Roadhog ignores him and heads inside.

The inn is dimly lit and smells like sweat and ale, Junkrat follows close behind Roadhog as he stalks in, and hell, he’s intimidating enough to calm at least _some_ of the jittery Junker’s nerves. They both get looks, varying between greed and silent respect, but Hog doesn’t pay any of the tavern’s inhabitants any mind. He makes his way to the splintering bar and grunts at the innkeeper. Junkrat hobbles after him, fuzzy eyebrows knit together in worry.

They’re pointed off to a darker corner of the already dark pub, Hog plops a meaty hand on Rat’s shoulder and guides him over to a table. Junkrat notices it’s off-kilter, but that’s not entirely shocking. Junkertown itself was a mess of rusted metal, reinforced wood, splinters of what used to be either human buildings or bits of the decades old omnium. He wiggles the table’s legs with his peg leg and snickers when Roadhog looks at him in a way that he _assumes_ is derisive.

“How old are you?” The big lug asks sarcastically.  


“Well, le’ssee. The place blew ‘bout twenty years ago, yeah? So probably somewhere along the lines of twenty-five, mate.” He snaps his fingers and points to Roadhog with a wide grin.  


“You look like a damn geezer,” Roadhog looks unamused.

“That’s just plain rude,” Junkrat runs a hand self-consciously over his hair. So what if his hairline was receding? It was the goddamn radiation’s fault. Or genes. He wasn’t really sure.  


“Alright, so what’s the plan? Can we fuckin’ leave yet?” Junkrat’s back to being antsy in a heartbeat, he scratches at his upper arm with his flesh hand, looking around the joint with suspicion. “Even with you breathin’ down my neck, shit’s goin’ to get messy. I mean, more than usual.”  


“What’re you blokes drinking?” One of the pub-maids asks from behind, spooking Junkrat into straightening up in his chair.  


“House ale,” Hog grunts.  


“I- uh, how’sabout some tea?”  


The girl clicks her tongue and pushes off, leaving the two staring at each other for a strained minute.

Junkrat looks away first with a cough into his fist, turning his attention to the rest of the bar patrons. No one he recognized, fortunately.

The girl’s back and hands off their drinks wordlessly, gone again before Junkrat can ask her where the back exit was.

Roadhog just leans back in his seat, and someone should _really_ commend that chair for such valiant effort. “Leavin’ tomorrow, maybe.” It’s not much of a definite answer, and Junkrat scowls at the cuppa. The actual cup isn’t so much a cup as a repurposed shell of an omnic head, and it’s enough to get him to giggle before he has a sip. It’s unsweeted and made from unidentifiable plant matter, but it’s soothing and just what he needed after being manhandled and chased and fuckin’ wandering the Bush for fuckin’ days. He groans at the memory and his stomach gurgles in reply.

“Shit, where’d you stow me swagbag?” He asks, hand and metal bits cupped around his tea, lips resting on the rim.  


“It’s in the bike bag,” Roadhog grunts, and his voice is clearer with his weird-ass pig mask pulled up just a smidge. Fat bastard’s already downed most of his pint and Rat grunts back. “Can I go grab summa my grub? And piss too, now that I’m thinkin’ about it. Promise I’ll be real quick, alright? That good for ya?”  


He can feel the other Junker boring holes in his head as Roadhog decides whether or not he feels like getting up to watch the scrawny little shit piss in the dirt, and after a quiet half-minute of lethargic silence, he finally nods and goes back to his drink. Junkrat bolts as soon as he’s given an affirmation. 

“Make it quick,” Hog stoically reminds him as he’s already half way out of the pub.

“Can’t believe I’m askin’ permission from some bugger to let me piss. I’m a blood grown-ass man with goddamn pubes, Christsake, shit.” He bitches to himself as he kicks furtively at the ground with his peg leg. “Didn’t even have to ask when I was a damn kid,” he tells the Hog’s bike as he looks around in the saddlebags for his shit. “Oi, that’s where my launcher went. Welcome back, luv! I missed ya somethin’ fierce. Shoulda blown that fat lot right up when we had the chance, eh?” The grenades clunk together as if agreeing with him and he laughs. A bit more searching turns up his bag of tucker, and he crams a bit of jerky in his mouth before waddling a few feet from the bike to take a leak.  


He’s got his dick out halfway with a bit of fuss, (that’s what he gets for trying to piss with a grenade launcher in his good hand,) when he hears heavy footsteps behind him. Through a mouthful of jerky he warns, “Oi, Piggy. Almost done mate, still takin’ a piss, gimme a mo’.” 

“Hey _**Shitmouse**_ ,” says a voice that is very much _not_ Roadhog.

Junkrat chokes on his snack and looks over his shoulder to find a big, smug bastard of a Junker holding a big fuckin’ pickaxe. 

He spits out the meat and lets out a shriek as he wills his bladder to hurry up and empty, even as he’s scuttling hastily away from the bloke that he’s pretty sure is going to try and murder him.

Not only is he getting piss all over his shorts, but the fucker has the audacity to _laugh_.

That’s when he remembers he still has his gun in his hand and fucking shit, you can’t just laugh at a man while he’s trying (and failing) to pee.

“Now you’ve _really_ done it, mate!” He spits, turning on his heel to lob a good round at the fucker.  


There’s the beautiful sound of close range explosions and he’s pissing himself as the blast back knocks himself on his ass, laughing like a fucking loon all the while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Shitmouse' coined by lovely lornacrowley


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ooh, and it's alright and it's coming on  
> We gotta get right back to where we started from  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter than I'd like. I'll add another chapter within the next few days, hopefully.

The whole joint freezes up as soon as the blast goes off. Words die before they can leave lips, mugs half way to mouths, bottles stacked on the wall rattle together like beggar’s bones.

Roadhog has already figured out where the explosions came from, and he’s got a pretty good idea as to why. He downs the rest of his second pint in one go before yanking his mask down, grunting as he stomps towards the back.

Only mildly surprised to find the twitching body of Junkrat’s would-be attacker, Roadhog kicks the bloke aside, eliciting a cry of pain from the smoldering bugger. He’s not dead yet, but judging from the crumpled limbs and smell of burning flesh, he won’t be alive for much longer.

“Oi, there you are, Piggy!” Junkrat quips from the ground, wiggling his fingers in greeting to his new bodyguard. “Found me grub. And I pissed. Sorta. All over, actually.” The dirt and piss stained Junker starts cackling again, and Roadhog grumbles something unintelligible as he lifts the twerp up, not really giving a shit about Junkrat’s bathroom malfunction.

The Rat staggers to his feet, tucks himself back in and wipes his hand on the back of his trousers. After he’s mostly got the sticky feeling of pee off, he limps over to the sporadically groaning stranger. He gives him a kick in the ribs before jabbing his peg leg through what’s left of the bloke’s stomach, chuckling under his breath. “Fuckin’ bastard, wouldn’t even let me use the loo in peace. Society’s really gone down the crapper, eh Hog?”

The pig-faced man just grunts, musing to himself that the runt wasn’t really wrong.

He looks up at the thumbnail of the moon hanging high in the sky, ignoring the sounds of Junkrat poking the crispy corpse in favor of staring at the expanse of stars.

They’re interrupted by the sound of the back door opening, they both turn to see who came out of the bar. It turns out to be two men and one miscellaneous in a funny looking helmet, all displaying weapons in the dim porch light.

Roadhog knows he can take care of them, easy, but before he can do jack shit, the little Rat’s already lobbed a…- What was that? A landmine? Some sort of explosive at the bunched trio and the blast is enough to send two flying and the third into pieces.

Junkrat’s losing his goddamn shit and he throws something else, this time it blows a hole in the side of the bar. Normally Roadhog’s pretty gung-ho about destruction and mindless violence, but that was the wall the booze was stored on and hell, he grabs Junkboy by the shorts and tosses him over his shoulder. He’s not really concerned about the blaze engulfing what’s left of that side of the shitty building, and he can’t really give a damn about the people inside, but it’s all happening too fucking close to his bike, and like _hell_ he’s kept that thing in functioning condition for decades to have it go up in flames because of some snot-nosed treasure-hunter and a bunch of greedy little shitstains.

And for some fucking reason, Junkrat is still lobbing grenades through the gaping hole in the wall and giggling like a goat on a hot tin roof.

Roadhog does what any annoyed seven foot three man does in that situation would and slaps the twig on the ass with a bark of “ _ **Knock it off**_.”

_That_ gets a yelp out of the rodent and keeps him distracted long enough for Hog to saddle up on his bike and drop him on the seat in front of him. He’s got the key in the ignition and well, they’re out of there before anyone can figure out who blew up the goddamn bar.

So maybe paying Junkertown a visit wasn’t such a good idea after all.

Roadhog’s annoyed about having to jump town after only an hour, annoyed about not getting another drink or a decent night’s sleep, he’s really fucking annoyed at Junkrat wiggling around on his lap and elbowing him in the gut. He’s got half a mind to strangle the little rat bastard himself, but that defeats the whole purpose of the past twelve hours.

He settles with flicking him in the ear.

Junkrat isn’t terribly pleased with that and lets Roadhog know with a mouthful of words that the Pig doesn’t bother hearing.

He drives as the moon drifts lazily across the star-speckled sky, drives until Junkrat stops talking and eventually falls asleep, drives until he passes the rest stop where this shit started, and keeps driving still.

Only when the orange glow of the morning sun starts to creep up behind him does he pull over into the Bush, tired of keeping the lanky bastard from falling off, tired of driving, and frankly, just plain fucking _tired_.

He drops the snoozing pile of Rat onto the ground without any reservation, pulls out a dusty tarp and a bedroll from his bike sack, drapes the cloth over the bike and himself, and conks out on the sleeping bag after murmuring a ‘ _keep watch_ ’ to the confused and bruised Junkrat.

_Little fucker better not start anymore shit._


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Orange Colored Sky

And the fat bastard’s out cold. Of course he is. He juts his jaw and clenches his fists, but stops when he realizes he’s still holding onto his grenade lobber in his less-than-ideal prosthetic.

The thought of blowing the chunky porkchop sky high crosses his mind, but it’s quickly squelched. He liked being driven. It was much faster than waking. And he supposed he owed the Pig for getting them back out of Junkertown and letting him sleep on the road.

He guessed he could return the favor.

Still. What was he supposed to do while the lard ass was sawing logs?

His trigger finger itched in reply, and he hissed at it. “Hush, gotta let the Hog sleep, don’t wanna get me neck snapped, alright?”

The finger doubled its efforts and continued to itch. Christ, maybe he should just take the damn arm off.

Thankfully, his stomach butts in and reminds him that he never finished snacking last night, and hey, now it’s morning. Cram something in your mouth, jackass.

Junkrat silently agrees, and gets to his feet with a little trouble, then hobbles over to the bike.

After he finds his sack he scuffles over to a decently sized boulder and squats on it, still a little chilly from the night. Kangaroo jerky goes in his mouth and he chomps away, idly kicking his peg leg against the dirt.

The sun was rising in the east, so he watches with wide eyes as light eats away at the remaining purples and blues, pink and orange cascading across the landscape and tinging the already red sand even redder. It’s funny how beautiful the blasted land can look in the soft pastels of the sunrise. Junkrat muses about how nice it is to be able to enjoy something so simple, having a bodyguard (a huge one, and incredibly scary, even if he was out like a candle) gave him a little peace of mind.

He wondered how long the big fella was planning on sleeping anyway.

His thoughts wandered off as he munched and fiddled with his launcher, taking it apart, blowing dirt out of the nooks, making sure it wouldn’t misfire in his face. He’s wiping grime from the barrel when he feels eyes on him, and freezing, he looks up, around, ears listening for whatever his subconscious tipped him off to.

Other than the sound of Hog snoring up a storm a few yards away, he hears nothing.

So what the hell?

He’s about to scold himself for the false alarm when something skitters across his lap.

There’s a fat little lizard the size of his forearm sticking its tongue out at him, blinking little beady eyes as it pauses on his thigh. Junkrat gives out a little bark of shock and delight, which scares off the reptile and rewards him with an angry grunt from Roadhog.

“Sorry mate,” he whispers apologetically, already scuffling after the startled lizard, grenade launcher in hand.

“C'mere you tiny lil’ bugger,” he coos, giggling under his breath as he chases the little bastard. The lizard stops in its tracks, tongue flicking. It’s obviously taunting him, Junkrat decides, and with a garbled mix of laughter and a war cry, he sends a barrage of grenades at the cheeky devil.

Ohh, the sound of clinks and pops and whizzes, then the glorious chorus of booms… He almost forgets about the lizard, but it’s scared shitless now and even if it’s not dead yet– “OW OW OW, FUCKIN’,” Junkrat squeals and drops his pride and joy as a very cranky and very groggy Roadhog pinches his ears, holding the smaller Junker in place despite the hands clawing at the fleshy prison.

“God _DAMNIT_ MATE, LEGGO. WE’VE BEEN OVER THIS,” Junkrat kicks and whines and wiggles around in an attempt to free himself, to which Roadhog leans down to breathe heavily in a now freed ear.

“ **Let me _sleep_** ,” he rumbles, awfully close to what a natural disaster sounds like.

Junkrat shivers, either from trepidation or the hot breath on his neck. He swallows, then nods, “Yeh. Of course mate. Gotta getcher shut eye in after all.” He trails off into a bout of nervous giggling, and Roadhog seems to be satisfied with that. He lets go of his other ear and lumbers back to his bedroll, plopping down without much further ado.

Junkrat runs his ears and grumbles as he drops back onto his ass, complaining to himself once Hog’s snoring resumes.

The next few hours are uneventful, Junkrat ends up doing some maintenance on his arm, it’s a pain to take apart and clean the moving bits, but it’s better than having a joint lock at a bad time. He puts it back together and wiggles the three clawed digits, wrinkling his nose at the rusted metal.

It’s a while longer before Roadhog wakes up, rolling off the sleeping bag and into the dirt, stretching out with a loud yawn and a scratch at his belly.

Junkrat snickers a “g'day” and the Hog just grunts in reply.

Hog packs up his kit while Rat messes around with a shrub he found a few hours prior, cramming handfuls of bush tomatoes in his mouth and bag. When the bigger Junker waddles over, dusting his hands on the seat of his trousers, Junkrat offers a fistful of the little round fruit. 

They’re taken wordlessly, and in return, Roadhog hands Junkrat a few little white tablets he fished out of his pockets. The Rat wrinkles his nose as Hog lifts his mask and pops the tomatoes and his own iodine pills in his mouth. _Who the hell chews medicine._ He’s still making faces as the burly Aboriginal pops a crick in his neck and saddles up on his bike.

“Where we goin’ now?”  


“Scrappin’,” is the flat response.  


Junkrat raises a wild eyebrow, but swallows his pill before scrambling up on the bike with him. He grabs the straps of the Pig’s overalls in anticipation, and they’re off again, the only proof of their stay a few minuscule craters and a pair of tire tracks.

They spend the next few days on and off the road, stopping at every ruin or settlement in search of supplies. They found a few parts for the Hog’s bike from some traders, after that they had a run in with a wandering gang whom they had the joy of both blowing apart and eviscerating. The spoils included some ammunition and what Roadhog called the worst fucking grog he’s ever had. Junkrat thought it tasted alright. They shared it together while they sat and watched ravens pick at the corpses while the sun settled down in the west.

They eventually came to rest at what remained of an old cattle ranch, wooden and rickety and falling apart around itself. Cows still grazed nearby, but Roadhog grabbed Junkrat by the belt when he got a glint in his eyes and his dirty little hands went for his launcher.

“Leave ‘em alone.”  


Hog pointed at a big ugly bull with a pair of horns that Rat hadn’t noticed, and if Roadie wasn’t going to back him up, he didn’t want to have to worry about being gored by the nasty looking piece of leather.

“Why don’t you help me gut a cow, Pig-face?” Junkrat asked, hobbling after Roadhog as the big brute searched the barn. A noncommittal grunt was the reply.

Junkrat grumbled back and settled down in a pile of musty hay, crossing his arms as the other Junker gave a kick at a rusted old tractor.

“You’ve got such a way with words, mate. Downright poetic, even.”  


Roadhog ignored him flat out, and the scrawny man let out a strangled whine of frustration. The other’s silence was too much sometimes. Rat brooded while Hog started taking apart the farm equipment, already gutting the engine from the old husk.

“We need a game plan, Roadie. I gots me treasure, yeah? We gotta find some bloke to pay good for it. And we’ve gotta get the most out of this partnership we’ve got goin’ on.”  


Junkrat laid back in the moldy pile of hay, hand behind his head, peg leg resting on the flesh one, bouncing just barely. He went on, staring at Roadhog’s sweaty back with a smile growing on his face.

“We oughta made this a real show, yanno? The two of us, we’ve got synergy. Betcha no one can stop us when we’re together.” He nods to himself, then snickers as Roadhog bends over and displays his crack.  


“Lovely. Anyway, as I was sayin’, betcha we can find someone in the city that’d buy the damn thing. I heard the coast is all nice and snug, civilized ‘n’ shit. _Bastards_. It’d be better than tradin’ it off to whoever we’d find out here in the wastes.”  


Roadhog pauses, looking up from the disemboweled tractor.

Junkrat flashes him a wide grin.

The Pig snorts, then looks back to his work, “They’re not like us. Don’t like us.” 

Junkrat falls silent, leg ceasing its incessant bouncing. “What’dya mean?”

“You’ll see.”  


The Rat cocks his head, “Guess that means it’s a plan.”

Hog grunts.

They’re both quiet after that, Hog busy reinforcing and tending to his bike, Rat watching him with sharp eyes.

Something about the heat of the day, the smell of sweat and grease and dirt, something about the way Hog’s muscles moving beneath the dappled sunlight streaming through the cracks in the roof. Something stirs in the Rat’s gut.

He brushes it off as gas, and falls asleep while watching the other work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ lemme know if i screwed anything up 
> 
> also thank u for all the comments and kudos, im glad we're all in this aussie hell together


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They call me a wanderer  
> Yeah, a wanderer  
> I roam around, around, around, around

Neither of them are used to company.

They’re both loners, by choice and by chance.

Roadhog wasn’t much of an extrovert to begin with, and as the years went on and life took its heavy toll upon his weathered hide, he had all but receded from the rest of the world, a hermit in the sands of his ancestral home.

Junkrat talks, too loud, too much, too often. He’s elated that he has someone to interact with, someone who won’t kill him in his sleep (so far at least), someone to protect him. It’s different than the majority of his young life, it’s odd to have someone by his side. But it’s nice, and there’s a little ball of fire and flame in his chest when he thinks about it.

That little fire burns a little brighter whenever Roadhog pulls him out of harm’s way, either from attackers or his own doing, both of which happen often.

It burns a little hotter when they camp out under the stars, when Roadhog talks, voice deep and gruff and sandy, rusted with time and radiation.

He asks Roadhog questions, he always does, but sometimes in the evenings, the Hog answers. He asks about the world before the Omnics, about the sea, asks if civilized folk actually had hovering cars or if the bloke who told him that was just yanking his leg. He wants to know what Roadhog’s real name is, and the bigger man says Roadhog is his real name. But no, Rat jabs a playful fist against Hog’s thick upper arm as they lay in the dirt, he wants to know the name his mum called him.

Roadhog is quiet for a moment, Junkrat sitting up to lean closer him, curious as ever. There’s something about the way the scavver looks at him like he’s something special makes him want to shove the skinny bastard in a dry well. Or take a bullet for him, whichever came first.

Mako, he finally says. But it’s not his name anymore.

Jamison Fawkes, laughs Junkrat. Now they both know each other’s names.

As they head east, the traces of destruction and scars of the omnium become less frequent and more noticeable. It’s so alien to Junkrat, who was raised in the wastes of Outback, who has only known dirt and dust and decay. He says something about it and Roadhog feels the weight on his shoulders grow a little heavier.

He doesn’t say anything, just keeps driving.

They reach the outskirts of civilization eventually, more buildings and less dingos, the road isn’t crumbling and there’s more order.

Junkrat hates it. Roadhog hates it too.

They pull up to a rest stop, similar but so different from the one they met in, and Roadhog warns Junkrat to stay close. They don’t need to worry about other Junkers here, but they’re not welcome and the bigger man knows it.

“Holy fuckin’ _dooley_ ,” Junkrat breathes as they stalk into the air conditioned building. Everything is clean, shiny, free of the layers of dust and grime he’s only ever known. Roadhog just snorts as the Rat lets out a hoot and skitters over to the nearest display case and tears into brightly packaged bags of crisps. It’s all one could expect from a scavenger, and Junkrat is very much one.

It’s not the first time Junkrat has eaten junk food, but it’s been a while, and after eating nothing but bush raisans for the past month, he’s just a little excited about the starchy, salty, greasy goodness. He’s gone through about half a dozen packages before he’s interrupted by the metallic voice of a concerned something-or-other.

“Sir? Sir, please provide payment before consum--”  


The omnic doesn’t get to finish its sentence, cut off quite literally by a hook though the neck. The robot is torn in two as a giant hand grasps its head, keeping it in place as the big meathook tears through its metal flesh like a can-opener. 

Junkrat stares, wide eyed and jaw askew, potato crisp crumbs stuck to his face. The dead weight of the omnic drops to the floor with a loud _clunk_ , followed by another, lighter _clink_ as Roadhog releases the severed head from his grip.

Hog lets go of the breath he didn’t know he was holding and glances down at the other Junker squatting on the linoleum floor amidst plastic wrappers and potato chips. Junkrat’s face fades from surprise and anger, then splits into a grin, he lifts a dirty hand to give the big pig a thumbs-up, something he’s seen Roadhog do before.

“Christ on a cracker, mate,” Rat starts, riled back up from the scuffle. “I’ll never get tired of seein’ ya work, you’ve got it down to an art. _Ab-so-lutely bea-u-tiful_.” He crams another fistful of crisps in his mouth before breaking into a giggle, something he immediately regrets as he nearly chokes.  


The sharp feelings of bloodlust and fierce protectiveness die down, Roadhog lets the white-knuckled grip on his hook relax, and he snorts loudly and moves away, chain jingling as he walks.

It’s a decent place to hole up for a while, he figures, scoping out the rest of the rest stop. There’s running water, air conditioning, electricity, plenty of food, and the clerk is already dead. Along with the perks of stored petrol and solar, it’s perfect for the time being.

He cracks open the cash register without much trouble and fingers through the sparse cash, preoccupied until Junkrat waddles back into view, dripping wet and snickering.

“Oi, mate! They’ve gotta lil’ fountain in the backroom! The water’s clean, tastes like shit though. Makes that billabong we stopped at smell like a damn flower.”  


Roadhog squints at Junkrat through the lenses of his mask, not quite sure if he found the sink or the loo. He really doesn’t want to know.

“We’re camping here,” he grunts out after Rat cracks open a can of soda.  


“Shit, ya mean it? Fuckin’ ace. Better than sleepin’ out in the dirt or deeper in,” Rat jabs a thumb over his shoulder, making a face at the thought of trekking further towards the east.  


They spend the rest of the day setting up boobie traps and scouring the place for anything exciting, Roadhog makes sure to turn the lights off and throw up the ‘Closed’ sign, it’s better to keep people from coming in than having to clean up corpses if they’re going to stay a while. When the sun goes down they share a slab of beer together, sitting on the bedrolls as they talk about where they should go next.

“I’m tellin’ ya mate, we oughtta head to Sydney, That’s where all the tall poppies are, yeah?” Junkrat empties a can and rolls over, stretching out his gangly limbs while yawning out the last bit of his words.  


Roadhog grunts an affirmative, draining his fifth beer and crushing the can against his head.

“Fuckin’ clankers though, can’t believe they’re letting fuckin’ omnics run about like they’re people or somethin’,” Rat spits to the side and glowers over at the body of the scrapped bot, nose wrinkling in indignation. “Took our home and blew it right the fuck up and they still act like they ain’t dirty mongrels, the lot of ‘em.”  


The Rat keeps yabbering on and stands with some effort to hobble over and kick at the dead omnic while Hog sits silently, his mask drawn up and lips taut in a frown as he holds a fresh can of beer on his gut.

“Hey,” the scrawny Junker drawls out, lifting one of the robot’s limbs to wiggle it at Hog. “I could upgrade me arm with this, I betcha. Been a right pain in the arse tryin’ to get the components out in the Bush.”  


“In the morning,” Roadhog rumbles back from across the room, skulling his beer before tossing the can at Junkrat.   


“Oi, watch it,” He whinges but clambers back over and plops on his roll anyway, fiddling with the rusted prosthetic strapped to the stump of his right arm. “It’ll be grouse havin’ a full five fingers again.” He goes on for a while, Hog is content to let his words trail on, Junkrat’s voice filling the emptiness in the air that would be there otherwise. He likes the way his voice cracks when he’s tripping over his own words and getting excited about taking things apart and putting them back together. There’s a pleasant buzz from it all, or maybe it’s just the beer.

“Need some pliers, and your help with holdin’ shit still. Shouldn’t take too long to refit it all to me-- _Oiiii_ , oi, knock that shit off.” He lets out a bark as Roadhog roughly ruffles a hand through his hair, but he sniggers and laughs. “Fuckin’ fruit loop, piggy bastard.”

“Ugly ratbag,” is the big man’s reply.

“But seriously, mate. Gonna need your help with this shit.”  


“Go to sleep.”  


Maybe they’re used to being alone, but it’s nice to be alone together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> smack me if I messed anything up


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tip your waitress

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wrow ive been busy
> 
> here's a chapter that's a little longer than usual ( i think )
> 
> ( also where is all the roadrat fics guys im like dying over here )

Roadhog is a light sleeper, one has to be when living in the Outback. The lightest footstep or softest touch could mean death. Junkers were murderous if it meant they could get something out of it, and that wasn’t even mentioning the native wildlife.

So, when Roadhog feels something brushing against his chest hair, his eyes snap wide open and his hand grabs the intrusion with a tight grip.

He’s rewarded with a strangled yelp and the sound of metal squeaking on linoleum, along with the sight of Junkrat looking startled and a little on the sheepish side.

Voice hoarse from sleep, he asks “What the hell are you doing?”

To which Junkrat giggles and hides behind a nervous grin, “Oh nothin’, mate. Jus’… Nothin’.”

Roadhog sits up and yanks the other Junker’s arm behind his back, much to his distress.

“You wanna tell me what you were planning on doing, Rat?” Hog asks again, dangerously close to dislocating the Rat’s shoulder. There’s something satisfactory about the way the scavver whines and wiggles that gets his blood boiling.

“Ow, ow, ow– Fuckin’ Christ! Lookit yer nip, and let go! Fuckin’– We’ve been over this, mate. Hands off the merchandise!”

He gives the other man another moment in the arm lock, relishing the strained sounds of pain before releasing the Rat from his duress. And, curious, he looks down at his chest.

It’s only mildly surprising to find a little scented pine tree looped around his nipple ring.

With a weary sigh, he gives Junkrat a pointed glare.

And of course, the scrawny little bastard just laughs.

Goddamn little trickster shit.

They share canned food for breakfast, Roadhog has to make Junkrat sit and eat because the little shit is too antsy to get started on ripping the dead Omnic apart. He manages a can of pineapple before springing up and limping over to the body in the corner. Hog apathetically munches while he observes.

Junkrat systematically separates limbs from torso, tossing aside the station uniform the bot previously wore. He’s on his stomach on the floor, peg leg kicking back and forth in the air as he hums to himself, prying open panels and disconnecting wires.

He’s surprisingly adept at it, and Hog forgets about his can of syrupy orange slices to spectate such delicate work. The clinks of metal on metal fill the morning air, precise fingers deftly picking apart the carcass.

After some time, Junkrat beckons Roadhog over and sits up with a pained groan, is horrible posture biting him in the ass. Christ, his back hurts.

“Gonna need ya to hold this still while I mess around with the wiring,” Rat explains, waggling the dismembered Omnic arm at Hog, who just grunts in reply. A real talker, that one. The limb is passed off and Junkrat whistles to himself (poorly) while he removes the crude prosthetic from his stump. It’s tossed aside without any reservation, skittering across the floor in a noisy (and annoying, Roadhog thinks) sort of way.

Hog’s big burly hand holds the metal arm still while the scavver messes with the cybernetics, he’s still intrigued by the younger Junker’s skill with fine work. Long slender fingers tug at wires, then fiddle with a worn screwdriver, and Rat mutters something about soldering.

At some point he’s distracted by the odd balding going on in Junkrat’s hair, and he’s honestly concerned about the constant singed aroma that levitates off the younger Junker like some sort of self defense mechanism. It reminds him of a stink bug . His thoughts are interrupted by a yelp of pain as Junkrat jerks and the Omnic arm flinches with him.

“A-Ha! There we go, blasted piece of scrap. Took bloody long enough.” Junkrat beams up at Roadhog, looking incredibly pleased with himself. “Thanks for the help, ya big oaf. ‘Preciate it.”

The metal hand wiggles in Hog’s grasp, he peers down at it, inspecting it in his palm.

“Looks good,” he grunts.

“Looks better on me than that piece of shit clanker,” Junkrat agrees, securing his new prosthetic in place with his flesh hand. The harness was easily savaged and replaced, it feels like the previous model but with more weight and a few more fingers. It’s nice, and he’s proud of himself.

He giggles to himself when he remembers that Hog is still holding his new hand.

His cracking laughter must have reminded the bigger man, because he drops the hand and pushes Junkrat away, sending the twiggy Junker sprawling backwards into a cackling pile of gangly limbs.

“Gonna need to find a good workin’ set of tools to get the power supply inside and under the plating,” Junkrat explains, still laying on the floor, new arm held up. He wiggles the fingers again and laughs in glee, beaming at his handiwork.

They spend the next few days getting a good feel of the surrounding area, a nice little suburban town with straight hedges and picket fences and all that disgusting nonsense. Junkrat finds a plastic lawn ornament on one of their walks and Roadhog knocks it out of his hands, perturbed by the creepy little face on the garden gnome.

It was an accident, sort of, when they began their life of crime. Professionally, anyway. They wandered into a diner after a beautiful morning ride through the area, sat down without help from a server, and plopped a dirty boot on the table. (Roadhog has more manners than that, so guess who the culprit was.) There's the general unease radiating from the workers and the patrons alike, these folks were civilized and even while they were closer to the Bush than most East-Coasters, they still weren't terribly found of the dusty pair of shirtless grease-stains rolling into town.

It was after Roadhog caught wind of one of the nicely dressed blokes in a nearby booth whispering something less than polite about the _two indecent bogans_ to his partner, that the big lug decided that he'd had enough of that sort of thing, and grabbed the bugger by the throat. He's almost got the bastard's head separated from the rest of his body when Junkrat pipes up and jabs the gasping bloke with a fork. 

"Cough up your money and my buddy here won't break ya spine, mate."

Roadhog is just slightly put off by that, and looks down at Junkrat while the sweaty excuse for a human writhes in his grip. Junkrat just shoots him his toothy grin and Hog grunts.

Damn him and that stupid smile. Fuckin' shit.

The mouthy bastard's partner is dishing out cash to Junkrat, who's looking pleased as a crow in a dumpster, and Roadhog rumbles a vindictive ' **gubbah** ' before throwing the piece of shit through the nearest window.

The rest of the visit goes fairly well, they eat a good hot meal, Junkrat literally drools on himself when he gets a real taste of jam and scones with some proper tea. Hog makes sure he leaves a good wad of cash on the table for the poor server who had managed to bring them their food with a concerned smile and squeaky voice.

The next few days are quiet. Quiet for them, at the very least. They made a whole trip of searching the surrounding town for a soldering iron and a few cans of paint, which Junkrat needed with a passion, or so he said. Roadhog gets some peace while the scrawny little bastard is busy painting his new arm all up in a horrid shade of orange.

He’s not what you’d think of as conventionally attractive, to be frank. All twiggy and joints and male pattern baldness. He’d probably still look like a mess even if you hosed the soot and dirt off him. Roadhog isn’t really one to talk, with his big gut and hairy fists, the scars and moles and mask just make him more interesting to look at. At least, that’s what he thinks. He’s not one to care much about other’s opinions in the first place.

But Junkrat, all skin and bones and drooping pants, flat ass and freckled shoulders, is attractive to Roadhog. Not at first, mind you. He hasn’t thought about things of that sort for years. It’s been ages since his last semblance of a relationship. Gave up on a family, never really cared for one anyway. So when the cheeky bugger with the peg leg and gold tooth started to grow on him in more ways that one, Roadhog has to sit down and think about it for a bit.

He likes Junkrat. He’s annoying as hell and never shuts up, but his laughter is infectious. His nose is long and he has more strain to his face than any twenty-odd year old deserves, but his smile (not that frenzied grin, though Hog knows he likes that too) brightens up the whole damn hemisphere.

Thoughts of the scavver’s hipbones and slim waist surface and Roadhog has to readjust his mask to ground him back in reality.

Yes, the Rat has grown on Hog.

But it’s not professional. Not that he gives a damn, but it’s a good excuse. He’s older by a good couple of decades, he’s been hired to protect the runt. Even if the little shit swung that way, he would almost definitely think Hog was only interested in the treasure.

Hah, treasure.

The treasure is what had pulled him in, the adventurous criminal activity had kept him interested, but Junkrat is always the reason why he stays.

Any other human on the planet wouldn’t have been able to get him to put up with so much nonsense. But he’d let the Rat piggyback on him, he’d keep his ass out of danger, crack terrible jokes to each other, help him put his arm on in the morning…

Hog rumbled to himself, dragging a hand down the rubber pig mask.

He decides to ignore it for the present. It’s easier that way. But that doesn’t stop him from wandering off in the night to wank while thinking of the skinny little prick.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> my Bonnie lies over the ocean

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> headcanon ahoy. not entirely happy with this chapter but it's been sitting in my drafts for two weeks
> 
> I firmly believe that Hog's 'Islander' skin uses the right skin tone for him. Along with the name 'Mako' and other themes, I think he's half Maori, half Austalian Aborigine 
> 
> lmk if I dun goofed

He likes the way Junkrat clings to him when they ride. Metal hand and flesh grasping at his sides, holding on for dear life. And sometimes Rat would press his cheek against his back, skin against skin, sweaty and hot. 

It gave him heartburn, but in a good sort of way.

So when Junkrat falls off the bike again when they're going an upwards of one-hundred and seventy kilos per hour, and the skinny piece of shit ends up with some nasty roadburn up and down his body, Roadhog ruefully announces that they're getting Junkrat a sidecar. 

There's an odd tremor in his chest when he wipes the other man down with alcohol and binds him up in bandages, wide hands checking ribs for breaks and wheezy little laughs from the poor schmuck of a patient. He wonders how Junkrat has managed to stay alive so long.

They ditched the dead Omnic's rest stop a while ago, high tailing after coming home from an armed robbery to find the place locked down and under investigation. Apparently someone finally noticed the joint had been out of service for a while now. They kept everything they needed on them, so moving on hadn't been an issue. They ended up bunking around various truck stops and motels after that. 

They eventually find a garbage dump, Junkrat is ecstatic about it and Roadhog is only mildly relieved. There's an old brick and mortar building and a shitty looking barn on the property, so they settle down there for the time being. It doesn't look like whoever owns the place lives nearby, so it's a resourceful sanctum until they have to move on again.

The scrawny Junker keeps busy with his bombs, there's plenty of bits and pieces and cans of combustibles nearby for him to use, and while it's his favorite pastime, he's so terribly side-tracked, and he's already an easily distracted man to begin with. He forgets what he's doing with the copper wires in his hands, tired eyes instead resting on the bulk of Roadhog's back as he's bent over his work. Junkrat can't help but stare, he tries to be discreet, because he doesn't want to be beaten or stranded in civilization because he's a damn poof and he really really likes the way the sun catches on Roadhog's muscles or the way sweat trickles down his back while he works on the chassis of the sidecar. 

He wonders what it's be like to feel Hog's big meaty hands on his body, but he's interrupted by a thread of drool descending from his chin and landing squarely on the grenade he was trying to put together. It's noiseless but it brings him back to reality nonetheless, and he lets out a giggle of exhausted amusement.

God fucking damnit if he isn't tired.

Since the few weeks since he picked up Roadhog, or vice versa, depending on your perspective, it's been easier to sleep at night without constantly worry about getting a knife in the ribs while he's conked out. They sleep in shifts, it's fair and safe, he has no qualms about it, and it gives him the chance to get looks at the Pig without worrying about being snapped in two. 

He scratches idly at the road rash and then drops his elbows on the splintery desk, head in his hands. "Oi, Hoggie." Junkrat clicks his tongue at the massive mercenary huddled over on the other side of the barn. "Let's take a break, mate. Won't hurt to crack open a few cans and take a breather."

That seems to entice Roadhog enough, he lets out a grunt and drops the wrench in his hand and waddles over, dropping face down in a pile of old hay and dead alfalfa with a soft whumph, sending Junkrat into a fit of howling laughter. 

"Fuckin' bushed, eh?" Rat asks with a chuckle, grabbing two cans of warm beer before hobbling over to plop down next to Hog, who rolls over and nearly squashes him with a grumbled "Shut up." Junkrat let out another cacophony of giggles as he settles by the other man's side and hands him a can of ale.

"Cranky old man," he snickers, laying back in the hay with a tired groan. 

"Cheeky brat," Hog snorts back, can hisses as he pops it open.

Junkrat just giggles and watches as Hog pulls his mask up to drink. 

"You're an Aborigine, right?"

The sound of Junkrat's cracking voice was expected, but the question itself was not. Roadhog choked briefly on the swig of hot ale and pounded a fist on his chest in a sputtering attempt at breathing. Once he hacked up the last drops of beer out of his lungs, he pulls his mask up further to give Rat a glared mixed with confusion and a dash of exasperation.

Rat's been cackling the whole bloody while, of course, but the rare sight of Hog's face is enough to get him to trickle off into sporadic tittering. He asks again, "You're a native, ain'tcha? You're skin's darker an' ya don't talk like the rest of us hooligans. Not the same sort of way, anyhow." Junkrat points at Hog with his open can of beer, sloshing the liquid in fat drops into the hay. The bigger man lifts his hand up, and the little bastard flinches, as if expecting physical harm, but Hog just pulls the mask back down over his eyes and leans back, taking a swig of beer before rumbling out an affirmative, "On my mum's side."

Junkrat exhales slowly, relaxing when he figures Roadhog isn't going to deck him for being a prying little bugger, he silently congratulates himself at having the foresight to bring the beer as a peace offering.

"Musta been real hard for you then, yeah? Losin' your land over and over again."

There's the sound of metal crunching and Roadhog flings the empty remains of the beer can across the barn, Junkrat jolts at the sudden sound and movement.

"Yeah."

He sounds angry, and Rat's wise enough not to push it. Roadhog wasn't a man you wanted to piss off.

They both sit in silence, and Hog is far gone in his thoughts. He misses New Zealand, the green and blue and family. He misses Queensland, the sun and surf and salt in the air as he rode up and down the coast before his home was taken. And he misses the Bush, the long stretches of road and the wide open sky, before everything was taken again and went to hell in a hand basket because metal machines were somehow more important than the people who had been here since before man could remember. 

He misses what's been taken from him and he in a foul mood as he rises to return to work. 

As the day moves on he barks at Junkrat more than once to shut the hell up. He's agitated and Rat's incessant babbling wears down his frayed nerves. It's not the scavver's fault, other than trying to sing about kookaburras off key, he didn't know what his questions would bring. Roadhog remembers that Junkrat hasn't even seen the world before it was blown to kingdom come, and his temper cools down as the sun sets. Rat doesn't know what's been stolen from either of them, especially not Hog, but there's a kindredness that Hog recognizes, and he wants to show Rat that the rest of the world doesn't live in holes in the dirt, they don't have to purify and neutralize radioactive water, or scrounge for something or anything edible, or live in a wasteland scattered with the bones of friend and foe alike.

The rest of the world hasn't had their homes stolen from them. 

There's a deep ember of bitterness and anger that Roadhog feels burning in his heart.


	9. Chapter 9

"Hey. Come here."

He gave a loud grunt, rousing Junkrat from his place on the floor where he had been slouched, quiet for once; busying with making bombs for the past hour and a half. The scrawny excuse for a Junker sat up as straight as possible for a man with notoriously godawful posture, looking at Roadhog with a tilted head and a quizzical stare.

"You gonna get up or what?" Hog asked impatiently, jerking a thumb over his shoulder.

That seemed to get the Rat's attention, and he stood up, odd and ends of yet-to-be-assembled grenades raining from his lap and onto the dirty floor with various plinks and clinks. He stretched, his body making its own little symphony of snaps, crackles and pops. "Alright, alright, hold on to your arse, I'm coming. What is it, didja find a dead body or somethin'?" He gave a toothy grin to the larger man, hobbling over to the doorway where he stood.

"No. You'll see." Roadhog snuffled, paused, and pulled a stray fuse out of Junkrat's hair, much to the smaller man's disgruntlement. "C'mon," he said, turning around and scuffling further into the mess of the abandoned building.

There's a large lump of something sitting in the middle of the floor, a worn tarp haphazardly thrown over it in a vain attempt to cover it.

Junkrat's clever enough to guess what it is, and it's got him excited enough to stand up straight and let out a broken squeak of joy that both grates on Hog's ears and makes him grunt proudly at the reaction.

Rat's already got the tarp off and he's babbling about customizing it, as if it wasn't one of a kind already, cobbled together by scrap and junk and necessity.

 _Like them_ , Roadhog thinks.

The sidecar is hooked up to Hog's chopper after Rat has a few ugly ass coats of the most garish shade of yellow Roadie's ever seen, and they're eager to test it out on the road.

The sun is just starting to go down when they shoot out of the antique storage barn, leaving behind billowing dust clouds and empty beer bottles. Roadhog lives up to his name, roaring down the middle of the two lane rustic highway, and Junkrat's crowing from his perch in the sidecar, they're both high on the speed and the wind in their hair.

It's almost midnight when the Pig pulls over, they don't get up from the bike, but take a moment to look up at the moon and stars. It's clear, there's no haze blocking out the light or tinting the moon unnatural colors, and Junkrat is silent for once.

Roadhog catches him staring, not at the heavenly bodies, but at him, and Junkrat looks sheepish.

Roadie laughs and Rat joins him.

_How do you kiss a man in a mask?_

Junkrat falls asleep in the sidecar, wondering.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about taking forever. Depression is kicking my ass. This chapter is short and the next one might be the last. As much as I love writing I'm pretty terrible at anything longer than a drabble and I'm more of a descriptive writer than an action one


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something something eighties music lyrics

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well Shit guys I'm still alive ?

It's been months now, since they started working together, traveling, whatever you want to call it.

It took some time to get used to, but it's made a difference.

Junkrat can sleep again. He still twitches in his sleep, wakes up with a start, keeps his bombs close and detonators closer, but he sleeps just a little more soundly.

Roadhog isn't talkative. Never was, never will be. He only makes noise when he's pissed, sometimes when he's fucking pleased. Nothing gets him going like popping the head off a hopped up little brute that thinks they can go toe to toe with the mountain of pork.

So yeah, not too talkative. But Junkrat understands him.

This grunt means _pass the food_ , that one means _hold the fuck on_ , that snort is a laugh and that snuffle he makes sometimes- Junkrat still hasn't figured that one out, but it makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up and catches the breath in his throat.

But the big guy has lightened up. Well, as much as a two-hundred and fifty kilo bugger can, _heh_.

He tells jokes sometimes. They suck, they really do, but Junkrat fucking loves them. Half the time they aren't even jokes, Hog will just point at some dead blighter's charred corpse and ask Rat if he's in the mood for barbecue and he'll just absolutely lose his goddamn shit.

Roadhog likes making Junkrat laugh.

He's a cheeky cunt and sometimes he'll do it right as Rat takes a swig. He laughs more than the blond does those times, Rat just sputters and coughs and calls him a cacophony of impolite names.

They're up north, Sydney long behind them, when Hog brings up traveling farther.

The east coast isn't nearly as fucked as the outback, Junkrat can still hardly wrap his head around it, the lack of rust and decay, pavement and structural integrity is such a foreign concept. It's culture shock, Jamison wants to burn it all down to their level. Roadhog agrees.

He asks Rat one day if he wanted to leave. Australia, that is. There was a whole world out there, part of Hog felt like the kid deserved to see it. The other part of him just wants to get as far away from the wasteland as possible. And hell, might as well take this shitshow to the rest of the world.

They're in a shopping mall when he brings it up, Fawkes was cramming a handful of tapioca balls in his mouth when Hog catches him off guard.

"We can do that?" He asks, the little black orbs spilling out of his mouth and bouncing against the counter he's splayed out on.

"We can go wherever the hell we want," Hog says, carefully balancing an odd little stuffed onion toy on his lap. He was sitting on the former proprietor of the tea stand, a snobby old man who had barked at them to ' _put some shirts on for crissake_ '.

"Could we go to England?" He sits up and more tapioca balls go rolling off his dirty torso and disperse amongst the piles of matcha and powered milk. "I wanna see the king. Heard they're smart about bots, too."

Hog takes a dainty sip of the tea he managed to get a hold of before Junkrat rolled all over the damn place, then grunts.

Junkrat lets out a hoot of victory before pouring a carafe of puréed mango down his gullet.

They spend a few days in Polynesia, scare a few locals, Hog informs Rat that Guinea Pigs aren't pigs, nor are they from New Guinea, but they are adorable, and no, he's not allowed to barbecue them.

It's Japan where they decide to set up shop for a while, after terrorizing East Asia from the Philippines to Hong Kong. Hog was adamant about avoiding Korea.

Their first night in Japan they nab an Omnic off the streets and tear it apart in a few games of kick the can. It breaks in two after Junkrat slaps a plastic bottle bomb in its shirt, and they both laugh about it and drink cheap stolen beer on top of a dumpster.

There's that strangling feeling in Junkrat's chest when he looks at Roadhog chuckling over the remains of the Omnic. He swallows the lump in his throats that he figures is a failed loogie, then hobbles his scrawny ass over to the big oaf as he knocks back another bottle.

It's strange for both of them when Junkrat wraps his arms around Roadhog's middle from behind and buries his face in Hog's back fat. Thankfully, Hog doesn't immediately try to kill him for it, but there's that moment after he drops the beer bottle and it shatters against the ground, when Junkrat thinks he's made a terrible-terrible-awful mistake.

They stand in silence.

Junkrat thinks that he likes the way Roadhog smells between the cold panic flashing up and down his spine.

Roadhog lifts an arm to look down at the Rat, who's planning to bolt- then that snuffle comes from under his mask.

He pulls his face from Roadhog's back, gives the big guy a grin. All teeth and anxiety and maybe something else, but mostly teeth.

Roadhog laughs. They both laugh.

They end up spending the night in a dumpster, cradled by cardboard boxes and maybe Junkrat ends up sleeping in the crook of Roadhog's elbow. It's soft there and Roadhog doesn't seem to mind.


End file.
